The Alibi (53 page)

It would have been a production. That was more her

style.

Relying on his powers of concentration and cognitive

skills, he arranged and absorbed all the data the

case file contained. To that information, he added

facts that he knew but of which Smilow was unaware:

1. Hammond himself had been with Lute Petti-john

shortly prior to his murder.

2. The handwritten note Davee had given him indicated

that Hammond wasn't the only visitor Lute

had scheduled last Saturday afternoon.

3. Lute Pettijohn was under covert investigation by the Attorney General's Office.

Alone, none of these facts seemed relevant. Together,

however, they piqued his curiosity as a prosecutor

and prompted him to ask questions . . . and for

reasons beyond his wanting Alex to be innocent.

Even had he not been emotionally involved with her,

he never wanted to wrongfully convict an innocent

person. No matter who the prime suspect was, these

questions warranted further investigation.

In his mind, applying these undisclosed facts, he

replayed each conversation he had had about the case. With Smilow, Steffi, his father, Monroe Mason,

Loretta. He removed Alex from the equation and pretended

that she didn't exist, that the suspect remained

a mystery. That allowed him to listen to every question,

declaration, and offhand remark with a new ear.

Oddly enough, it was one of his own statements

that snagged him, yanking him from this lazy stream

of consciousness. "Your garden-variety bullets from

your garden-variety pistol. There are hundreds of

.38s in this city alone. Even in your own evidence

warehouse, Smilow."

Suddenly he was imbued with renewed energy and

a fierce determination to justify his own irrational behavior

over the last few days. Everything--his career,

his life, his own peace of mind--hinged on

exonerating Alex and proving himself right.

He glanced at his desk clock. If he hurried, he

might have time to begin his own investigation this

afternoon. Hastily gathering up the case file and

stuffing it into his briefcase, he left his office. He

had just cleared the main entrance of the building

and stepped into the blast-furnace heat when he

heard his name.

"Hammond."

Only one voice was that imperative. Inwardly

Hammond groaned as he turned. "Hello, Dad."

"Can we go back into your office and talk?"

"As you see, I'm on my way out, and I'm in somewhat

of a hurry to get downtown before the end of the

business day. The Pettijohn case goes to the grand

jury on Thursday."

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

Preston Cross never took no for an answer. He

steered Hammond toward a sliver of shade against

the building's flat facade. "What happened to your

arm?"

"Too much to explain now," he replied impatiently.

"What's so urgent it can't wait?"

"Monroe Mason called me from his cell phone on

his way to the gym this afternoon. He's deeply troubled."

"What's the problem?"

"I dread even to think about the consequences if

Monroe's speculation is correct."

"Speculation?"

"That you have developed an improper regard for

that Dr. Ladd."

That Dr. Ladd. Whenever his father spoke disparagingly

of someone, he always placed the generic

pronoun in front of their name. The depersonalization

was his subtle way of expressing his low opinion of

the individual.

Stalling, Hammond said, "You know, it's really

beginning to piss me off that every time Mason has a

beef with me, he calls you. Why doesn't he come to

me directly?"

"Because he's an old friend. If he sees my son

about to piss away his future, he respects me enough

to warn me of it. I'm sure he hoped that I would intervene."

"Which you're all too glad to do."

"You're goddamn right I am!"

His father's face had turned red up to the roots of

his white hair. There was spittle in the corner of his

lips. He rarely lost his temper and considered emotional

outbursts of any sort a weakness reserved for

women and children. Removing a handkerchief from

his back pants pocket, he blotted his perspiring forehead

with the neat white square of Irish linen. More

calmly he said, "Assure me that Monroe's notion is

totally groundless."

"Where did he get the idea?"

"Firstly, from your lackadaisical approach to this

case."

"I'd hardly call it that. I've been working my butt

off. Granted, I've exercised caution--"

"To a fault."

"In your opinion."

"And Mason's, too, apparently."

"Then it's up to him to chew my ass, not you."

"From the outset you've been dragging your heels.

Your mentor and I would like to know why. Is it the

suspect that's made you gun-shy? Have you developed

a fondness for this woman?"

Hammond's eyes stayed fixed on his father's, but

he remained stubbornly silent.

Preston Cross's features turned rigid with fury.

"Jesus Christ, Hammond. I can't believe it. Are you

insane?"

"No."

"A woman! You would sacrifice all your ambitions

--"

"Don't you mean all your ambitions?"

"--on a woman? After getting this far, how could

you behave in such a--"

"Behave?" Hammond barked a scornful laugh.

"You've got your nerve, confronting me about a behavior

issue. What about your behavior, Father?

What kind of moral measuring stick did you set as

my example? Maybe I've readjusted mine to match

yours. Although I would definitely draw the line at

cross-burnings."

His father blinked rapidly, and Hammond knew he

had struck a chord.

"Are you Klan?"

"No! Hell, no."

"But you knew about all that, didn't you? You

knew damn well what was happening on Speckle Island.

Furthermore, you sanctioned it."

"I got out."

"Not entirely. Lute did. He got himself murdered,

so he's off the hook. But you're still vulnerable.

You're getting careless, Dad. Your name is on those

documents."

"I've already made reparation for what happened

on Speckle Island."

Ah, his famous quick jab/uppercut. As usual,

Hammond hadn't seen it coming.

"I went to Speckle Island yesterday," Preston told

him calmly. "I met with the victims of Lute's appalling

terrorism, explained to them that I was mortified

when I learned what he was doing, and that I

separated myself from the partnership immediately. I

gave each family a thousand dollars to cover any

damage done to their property and, along with my

heartfelt apology, made a substantial contribution to

their community church. I also established a scholarship

fund for their school." He paused and gave

Hammond a sympathetic smile. "Now, in light of this

philanthropic gesture, do you really think a criminal

case could be made against me? Try it, son, and see

how abysmally you fail."

Hammond felt dizzy and nauseated, and it wasn't

attributable to the heat or to his injuries. "You bought

them off."

Again that beatific smile. "With money taken out

of petty cash."

Hammond couldn't remember a time when he

wanted to hit someone more. He wanted to grind his

fist against his father's lips until they were bruised

and bleeding, until they could no longer form that

condescending smirk. Curbing the impulse, he lowered

his voice and moved his face close to his

father's.

"Don't be smug, Father. It's going to cost you

more than some petty cash to make this go away.

You're not off the hook yet. You are one corrupt son

of a bitch. You define corruption. So do not come to

me with lectures about behavior. Ever again." Having

said that, he turned and headed for the parking

lot.

Preston grabbed his left arm and roughly pulled

him around. "You know, I actually hope it comes to

light. You and this gal. I hope somebody has got

pictures of you between her legs. I hope they publish

them in the newspaper and show them on TV.

I'm glad you're in this fix. It would serve you right,

you goddamn little hypocrite. You and your self-righteous,

do-gooding, Boy-Scouting attitude have

sickened me for years," he said, sneering the

words.

He poked Hammond hard in the chest with his

blunt index finger. "You're as corruptible as the next

man. Up till now you just hadn't been tested yet. And

was it greed that caused you to stumble off the

straight and narrow path? No. The promise of power?

No." He snickered.

"It was a piece of tail. As far as I'm concerned,

that's where the real shame lies. You could have at

least been corrupted by something a little harder to

come by."

The two men glared at each other, their animosity

bubbling to the surface after simmering for

years beneath thick layers of resentment. Hammond

knew that nothing he said would make a

dent in his father's iron will, and suddenly he realized

how little he cared. Why defend himself and

Alex to a man he didn't respect? He recognized

Preston for what he was, and he didn't like him.

His father's opinion of him, of anything, no longer

mattered because there was no integrity or honor

supporting it.

Hammond turned and walked away.

Smilow had to wait half an hour in the Charles

Towne Plaza lobby before one of the shoeshine chairs

became vacant. "Shine's holding up just fine, Mr.

Smilow."

"Just buff them, then, Smitty."

The older man launched into a discussion of the

Atlanta Braves' current slump.

Smilow cut him off. "Smitty, did you see this

woman in the hotel the afternoon Mr. Pettijohn was

killed?" He showed him the photograph of Alex Ladd

that had appeared in the afternoon edition of the

newspaper. He'd enlarged it to better define her features.

"Yes, sir, I did, Mr. Smilow. I saw her on the TV

this afternoon, too. She's the one y'all think murdered

him."

"Whether or not the grand jury indicts her next

week will depend on the strength of our evidence.

When you saw her, was she with anyone?"

"No, sir."

"Have you ever seen him?"

He showed him Bobby Trimble's mug shot.

"Only on the TV, same story, same picture as this

one."

"Never here in the hotel?"

"No, sir."

"You're sure?"

"You know me and faces, Mr. Smilow. I rarely forget

one."

The detective nodded absently as he replaced the

photos in his breast pocket. "Did Dr. Ladd look angry

or upset when you saw her?"

"Not in particular, but I didn't study on her that

long. I noticed her when she came in 'cause she's got

right nice hair, you know. Old as I am, I still like

looking at pretty girls."

"You see a lot of them coming through here."

"Lots o' ugly ones, too," he said, chuckling. "Anyhow,

this one was by herself and minding her own

business. She went straight on through the lobby to

the elevators. Then in a little while she came back

down. Went into the bar over yonder. Little later, I

saw her crossing back to the elevators."

"Wait." Smilow leaned down closer to the man

buffing his shoes. "Are you saying she went upstairs

twice?"

"I reckon."

"How long did she stay the first time?"

"Five minutes, maybe."

"And the second time?"

"I wouldn't know. I didn't see her when she came

back down."

He gave Smilow's shoes one last whisk. Smilow

stepped down and spread his arms to let Smitty go

over his coat with a lint brush. "Smitty, have you

mentioned to anyone that I got a shoeshine that day?"

"It's never come up, Mr. Smilow."

"I'd rather you keep that between us, okay?" As he

turned, he slipped Smitty a sizable tip.

"Sure enough, Mr. Smilow. Sure enough. Sorry

about the other."

"What other?"

"The lady. I'm sorry I didn't see her come back

down."

"You were busy, I'm sure."

The shoeshiner smiled. "Yes, sir. It was like Grand

Central Station through here last Saturday. People

coming and going at all times." He scratched his

head. "Funny, isn't it? All of you being here that same

day."

"All of us?"

"You, that doctor lady, and the lawyer."

Smilow's mind acted like a steel trap that had just

been tripped. "Lawyer?"

"From the D.A.'s office. The one on the TV."

CHAPTER

31

Hammond waited in the corridor until he saw

Harvey Knuckle leave his office at precisely five

o'clock. The computer whiz conscientiously locked

the door behind him, and when he turned around,

Hammond was crowding him. "Hey, Harvey."

"Mr. Cross!" he exclaimed, backing up against the

office door. "What are you doing here?"

"I think you know."